


Misdirections

by Sparkleaf



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Dark Brotherhood - Freeform, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2015-06-29
Packaged: 2018-08-07 09:17:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7709479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparkleaf/pseuds/Sparkleaf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since the recent incident at Helgen, the Khajiit Dar'raan has started a new life in the war-torn province of Skyrim. With hidden ties to the Thieves' Guild and the Dark Brotherhood, he struggles to maintain a respectable image to the Nords who barely tolerate his prescence in their cities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Robbing the Wrong House

**Author's Note:**

> This is kinda old, and my writing style was rather wordy back then. Please bear with me

Snowflakes fell across the city of Windhelm, turning to red slush on the ground. "Please, mister? Will you buy a flower?" called a shivering girl with a flower basket by the east gate, watching desperately as Nords passed her by.

The Aretino house was perched on an archway at the end of a stone bridge, framing the path into Ulfric's courtyard. Clad in leather armor, a Khajiit crouched behind a pillar to listen in on a young Nord boy and his Dunmer maid.

"You mustn't lurk these streets on your own, child," said the Dunmer sternly. "What would your father say if he found you here? These are dark times, and we must be careful."

The boy's eyes lit up. "Then it's true, what everyone is saying?" he said eagerly. "That Aventus Aretino is doing the Black Sacrament? Trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood?"

The maid, Idesa flinched, but quickly shookt her head. "Oh, Grimvar," she sighed, resting a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Where do you hear such stories? Our city is already dangerous enough without them."

"Oh yeah?" replied Grimvar. "If they're just stories, then I'll invite him out to play. He lives right there. I'm going to knock on his door!"

"No, child, wait!" As Grimvar approached the front door, Idesa quickly stepped in front of him, catching his wrist. "This boy, this house... they're cursed! You must never go inside."

"Ha! Then I'm right, Idesa!" crowed Grimvar, crossing his arms, looking up at the Dunmer triumphantly. "I knew it. He's trying to have somebody killed!"

Strange emotions flickered in the dark elf's ruby eyes, fear and love. This was not her child, but pehaps she loved him as a mother would. "All right; I won't deny it," sighed Idesa. "What you heard is true. But Aventus Aretino walks a dark path. His actions can lead only to ruin."

She took his hand and slowly led him away from the house, gentle but firm. "Now. Enough. We will speak no more of this. I am the only friend you need..."

As Idesa and Grimvar walked away, the Khajiit emerged from hiding, staring up at the Aretino house's dark windows. His eyes narrowed.

Behind him followed a Bosmer wearing black and green, his white hair tied back into a ponytail, bow and quiver on his back. "Hey, Dar'raan?" muttered Faendal. "This city gives me the creeps. Nothing good ever happens when Dunmer and Nords are in the same place."

"Our kind have not traditionally gotten along, either, but we have managed," pointed out the Khajiit lightly. "Wait here for a moment, Faendal. I want to check something out."

Faendal stared as Dar'raan crept over the Aretino front door. "Hey, what're you doing?" he asked. "You're not getting food from here, are you? You heard what the Dunmer said. This house is cursed."

Taking a lockpick and his dagger from his satchel, Dar'raan set it to the keyhole. "If Candlehearth Hall will not accept me, then I shall eat here," he said simply. "If you don't approve, then wait outside. I shall return shortly."

\----------

Shutting the door behind him, the Khajiit crept up the stairs. This house might once have been beautiful, but it had gone to seed; the barrels above the entrance were rotting, falling apart.

Dar'raan was a thief; perhaps it was simply in his blood. But he had no stomach for snatching valuables; nine-tenths of his wallet was justly earned. What he took, the owners would not miss.

Passing through another door frame, the Khajiit chose his targets carefully: wine, cheese, a few scattered coins. Silently, slowly, he crept across the room, filling his pockets.

"Please? How much longer must I wait?" whispered a desperate voice on the right." Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear..."

A chill ran down Dar'raan's spine. Tenatively, he peeked around the corner—and his fur was set on end.

A wild-eyed boy sat in a ring of candles, a pentagram traced on the ground, his hands and fingers smeared with congealed blood. On the floor lay a skeleton, bits of flesh still clinging to the bones.

Chanting, the boy repeatedly thrust a dagger between the ribs, into the still-swollen heart. Shuddering, Dar'raan stared at the boy and his grisly ritual. The blood smelled fresh.

 "Die, Grelod, die!" cried the boy as he stabbed the skeleton, his face filthy with blood, soot, and dirt, eyes sunken from lack of sleep. "Grelod, you old crone, you'll get what you deserve. The Dark Brotherhood will see to that—"

Time to leave. Taking a book from a nearby shelf, the thief turned to leav, when his tail accidentally collided with an iron-cast pot, knocking it into the cold, greasy fireplace. At once, Dar'raan froze—standing right in the boy's view.

With a crazed smile, Aventus let go of the dagger, turning to face Dar'raan. "It worked!" he gasped, hugging the shocked Khajiit. "I knew you'd come, I just knew it!"

The Khajiit's life flashed before his eyes. His reputation was lost. Would they throw him out of Windhelm for petty theft? Surely not. But from what he knew of Ulfric Stormcloak—

"I did the Black Sacrament, over and over," continued Aventus excitedly. "With the body and the..." He gestured back around the circle of candles, the bots of human flesh, the bloody dagger in the dead body's heart. "...the things. And then you came! An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood."

Regaining his senses, Dar'raan stared at the boy. The Dark Brotherhood? What? "I'm sorry, boy," said the Khajiit, shifting his body to hide his right hand, carefully replacing the book on the shelf. "I'm not who you think I am."

Aventus grinned, revealing his yellowed teeth. "But of course you are!" he said proudly. "I even chose those recent murder victims, because the dirt would stil lbe soft and the graves would be easy to dig up! I prayed, and prayed, and waited for so long..."

Dar'raan's eyes narrowed. Were the boy not so young, he would have reached for his dagger. Shoulders sagging, Aventus looked up at the Khajiit. "But you're here at last, and now you'll accept my contract."

"Contract?" No use trying to explain. Best to pretend he was in the right place, and leave Windhelm with his fur intact. "Ahem. Yes, very good. You saw through my disguise. Now, to business—" The Khajiit looked around the room again. "Wait. Where are your parents, boy?"

Leaning against the wall, the boy closed his eyes. "That's just it," said Aventus weakly. "My mother, she... she died last winter. I... I'm all alone now." He pointed to a letter on the floor nearby. "So they sent me to that terrible orphanage in Riften. Honorhall."

The Khajiit froze in shock. "Honorhall?" he breathed, dropping his silky tone. "Let me see." Taking the letter, Dar'raan read it silently, parchment crinkling in his hands. "Ulfric Stormcloak sent you to Honorhall?" he hissed, his eyes narrowing. "Yes, tell me more about this... contract..."

\----------

"Good to see you back," said Faendal as the Khajiit emerged from the house, snow flakes coating their hair and clothes. "So, you need anything from me?"

The feline warrior was silent at first. "No, that will be fine," said Dar'raan, gazing out past Windhelm's crumbling walls, still clutching the letter from Ulfric's steward. "I apologize, Faendal. I... I should not have asked you to come."

The Bosmer frowned. Khajiit were not usually so lax with their tongues. Something was wrong. "No, no issue," he said. "I've been in Skyrim for years, you know."

They set off down the crumbling road toward the east gate, ignoring dirty looks from passing Nords. "So, find anything good in there?"

"Yes, yes I did," said Dar'raan, scrunching the letter into a tight ball. "I'll share more, once we reach Whiterun."

Concerned, Faendal watched as the Khajiit approached the flower-selling girl by the east gate, Depositing a handful of septims into her basket, Dar'raan accepted three blue flowers from Sofie's trembling fingers before continuing outside.


	2. Why Did I Come Here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On other sites, Malborn appears instead of Mallus, because I got their names confused. Oops

Guards in golden togas patrolled the walls of Whiterun, anxiously watching the roads and the skies. At the base of a stone watchpost, four Khajiit set out bed rolls as their silver-haired leader sat cross-legged in front of a patched leather tent, trinkets and wares laid out on a red silk rug.

In the distance, the beats of horse hooves against the paved road grew clearer as a carriage approached. Their emotions concealed beneath their helmets, the Whiterun guards watched as the carriage-driver Alfarinn and his passengers approached their city.

Though cracked and worn by time, Whiterun's pride was unmatched. To many, the hills surrounding Dragonsreach were far preferable to the Imperial grandeur of Solitude or the crumbling legacy of Windhelm; not a thing of the Empire nor of ancient Nords; but a people with prosperity and desire, with both honor and wealth, the embodiment of all Skyrim.

The guard up in the watchpost watched as a Khajiit and the Bosmer dismounted from the carriage. A leather helmet covered Dar'raan's feline jowls and brow stripes, his pronounced muzzle almost vulpine. Ri'saad's caravan eyed their fellow Khajiit with disdain. "Heretic," hissed one.

As the duo approached the gates, the guard in the watchpost held up his hand. "Stop right there." Faendal watched as two more guards strode down toward Dar'Raan.

After examining the pendant hanging from Dar'raan's neck, the guards inspected his pockets and bag. The Khajiit did not appeaf surprised or insulted by this inspection, only irritated.

Finding nothing, the two guards nodded in satisfaction and stepped back. "Looks like you're good to go," said the guard in the watchpost as Dar'raan pulled his pack over his shoulder. "Come on in."

\----------

He could feel their stares as he entered the Bannered Mare. Did they fear him? Khajiit walking among them, sitting among them, drinking their mead? But of course. His shaggy presence surely took a toll on their patience.

Perhaps they wondered how could guards let such vermin into their fair city. Perhaps they held their children close, fearing a silver-tongued Khajiit would lure them into a life of skoom and misery. Skooma! The very word burned his ears.

But the Dragonborn had vouched for Dar'raan's people before the Jarls of Skyrim, both those loyal to the Stormcloaks and those loyal to the Empire. And ever since the battle at the Western Watchtower, the Dragonborn and his friends were held in esteem.

And yet they opened their doors, but not their hearts! Lone Khajiiti could find lodging, now, but no caravan had yet been permitted to enter.

Surely, the Nords could never accept him. In their eyes, his whiskers were sinister, his eyes were rife with conspiracy. His claws were a public menace, his fur a reminder of his bestial blood.

"Thank you," said Dar'raan as Saadia handed him a tankard. He looked up at the innkeeper. "Hulda, any new rumors?"

Filling a foaming tankard, Hulda set it in front of Sam Guierre. "Rumors? Oh, yes. They say the Jarl's children have been acting up lately."

"Really, now." Amused, Dar'raan drank from his tankard. "I suppose I'll have a talk with Balgruuf. Anything more interesting?"

"Well, they say the Aretino boy was performing the Black Sacrament, in Windhelm," said Sinmir. Mead sloshed out onto the bench as he put down his tankard. "What could possess him to consort with such evil men?"

"It was the Imperial roads that first brought the Dark Brothehood to Skyrim," said an elderly Nord savagely, seated on the bench across from Dar'raan. Fine robes, rich brown and velvet red; it was Vignar of Clan Gray-Mane. "When will we learn to cut our ties with our oppressors?"

Amused, Dar'raan watched as a man in brown-and-red Imperial armor got up. "By Shor," said Idolaf Battle-Born angrily, pointing at Vignar. "The only oppressor here in Whiterun is your voice that oppresses my ears with your demagoguery!"

The tavern fell silent as old Vignar rose to meet the younger man's glare, face worn and creasing in the fire's light. In the corner, Mikhael slowly lowered his lute"Mine ears hear only the language of Imperial gold," growled the bearded Nord. "Put your fists where your mouth is, boy."

Ah, a classic example of Nord civility. Dar'raan smirked as Vignar and Idolaf raised their fists. Still clutching their tankards, other patrons began to gather around the duo.

As Idolaf and Vignar began to swing at each other, the watching patrons' chants filled the Bannered Mare, spurring the combatants on.

"Get him!"

"Make him pay!"

"You must really enjoy watching these brawls," said Faendal from next to Dar'raan. "A penchant for violence is a dangerous thing, you know."

The Khajiit simply smiled, listening to the clamoring crowd. "Says the mighty hunter of Riverwood."

Faendal chuckled; but after a moment, he leaned in toward Dar'raan, his voice growing stern. "Listen. Don't take the contract. Don't get mixed up in all that."

Calmly, Dar'raan drank from his tankard. "Orphans have no one," he said smoothly." They should not be tricked into believing Grelod will care about them."

There was a loud groan as Idolaf sent Vignar reeling to the floor with a blow to the jaw. "Isn't it better to have Grelod than no one?" muttered Faendal. "Yes, Grelod might be nasty, but she feeds and clothes them, doesn't she?"

The front doors opened as Olfrid Battle-Born strode inside, followed by Eorland Gray-Mane. Over by the counter, Sam Guierre watched calmly as the two combatants were pulled apart.

"Didn't I warn you about picking fights with old men stuck in their ways?" glowered Olfrid, glaring down at his son, holding him by the scruff of his shirt. "You'll disgrace us, carrying on like this, boy."

Eorland looked only slightly calmer than the Battle-Born patriarch. "Save your strength for the battles that matter, brother," advised the blacksmith, helping Vignar to his feet.

Dar'Raan watched with amusement as Vignar and Idolaf were dragged outside. "Hey, aren't you supposed to be a respectable Khajiit?" muttered Faendal, nudging him with his elbow.

The Khajiit's smile vanished. "I consider myself above most of this rabble," said Dar'Raan stiffly. Setting down his tankard, he rose to his feet. "They take to their mead like desert-walkers addled by the heat. Surely I am more civilized than that, yes?"

The Bosmer's expression turned grim. "Civilized? Killing an old woman isn't civilized, doesn't matter what your race is," he warned. "You can't take a person's life when they're not after yours. "

Turning, Dar'Raan looked his friend in the eye. An odd smile formed. "I assure you, this woman deserves death, and I will not be convinced otherwise," he said firmly, a feline hiss slipping into the edge of his voice.. "If you would rather not partake in this, perhaps it is best that you return to Riverwood."

Gripping his bow, Faendal stared as the Khajiit headed for the door. A man in dirty, mead-stained clothes with sunken eyes looked up as Dar'Raan passed. "What're you looking at?" mumbled Malvern, his eyes unfocused.

Paying neither Faendal nor Malvern any attention, Dar'Raan stepped outside and alone, one hand on the hilt of his dagger. He had work to do before the sun set.


	3. Seems Like a Good Idea

Cool mist gathered on the windows of Breezehome as night settled over Whiterun. Inside the house, Dar'raan hunched over a copper cooking pot simmering over an open fire-pit, stirring its contents with a ladle, fur tucked beneath long-sleeved garb.

The inside of the house would appear small at first glance; barely five strides wide and not quite twelve strides long. The back half of the room was occupied by a dining table pushed into the right corner, a few wall-shelves with dishes and pots squeezed between the table and the wall. There was a tail's length between the table and the stairs against the left wall.

Behind Dar'raan was a small table with a chair, a loaf of Carlotta's bread resting on a pretty blue plate. A greatsword and a battleaxe hung in a wioden weapon rack next to a cupboard with plates and a slab of salted venison.

A war axe with glowing blue runes hung on a red plaque above the front door: the symbol of a Thane of Whiterun. It was not Dar'raan's axe, of course, but the Dragonborn's.

"Excuse me, is that moon sugar?" asked Lydia as she came down the stairs, shield in hand. Her eyes were calm, her arms toned and sturdy.

Dar'raan gave the housecarl a look. "This is _venison stew_ ," said the Khajiit flatly. Lifting the ladle to his mouth, he savored the rich flavor of elk flesh. "Come now, Lydia. You know me."

Taking a seat by the firepit, Lydia opened a bottle of mead, smiling. "Yes. But that doesn't make your reactions any less amusing."

"Housecarl like Thane alike," replied the Khajiit calmly. Setting down the ladle, he closed the lid and stepped away from the fire. "Ah, yes. I have a gift for your thane."

From his satchel, he took a black book with a silver Imperial crest and handed it to Lydia. "Oh, this book?" said the housecarl, staring at the cover. "Well, I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

"Of course. It's the one from Helgen." Moving to the cupboard, Dar'raan fetched a wheel of goat cheese and a loaf of bread.

"I must say, most adventurers don't bother learning to cook," remarked Lydia, taking another drink of her mead. "Your friend, the dark elf, seems to have commited himself to a liquid diet.

The Khajiit glanced back to Lydia, smiling slightly. "When one is always on the road, one must ldearn to eat when he can," said Dar'raan, slicing his cheese. "Potions do well to refresh the mind, but little to satisfy the stomach. I cannot fathom how Urendil can live without the satisfaction of true food."

Supper was simple, but fresh and hot. As they ate, Dar'raan watched Lydia's expression, wondering how his stew compared to the feasts up at Dragonsreach. Though hardly amazed, she was not repulsed either; his food was edible, at the very least. The Khajiit smiled slightly.

Plates, wooden bowls, knives, forks, goblets; one after another, dirty dishes plunged into a bucket filled with wash-water, scrubbed and rinsed until they were clean and dried, stacked away in the tall cupboard by the dining table.

"I should be heading off," said the Khajiit as he pulled his satchel over one shoulder, tucking an orcish dagger into his belt. "Give my regards to the Dragonborn."

Lydia frowned as Dar'raan entered the alchemy lab by the stairs. "It's gettling late," said the housecarl as the Khajiit brought down the chest on top of the bookshelf. "Are you leaving already? The others did warn you about the vampires..."

"I will be fine," said Dar'raan smoothly, taking red potion flasks from the chest and storing them in the pouches on his belt. "My errands are simple enough. But no one can know that I'm gone until I return."

"Surely you're not planning to take that boy's contract?"

There was silence. Carefully closing the potion chest, Dar'raan stared up at Lydia, his tail held rigid. "Faendal told you where I was," said the Khajiit quietly. "I should have gone alone."

The housecarl's hand tightened as she met Dar'raan's stare, but she did not move. "Yes, he did," said Lydia. "While my Thane prefers me to not pry into your affairs, there is something dark and terrible about that boy. Ordinary children don't perform the Black Sacrament in the dead of night."

Clenching a fist, the Khajiit glared at Lydia, though the housecarl could sense his anger was not toward her. "Ordinary children don't come from Honorhall," said Dar'raan angrily. "Did you see the letter? Ulfric sent him to the orphanage."

Lydia massaged her forehead. "Please, don't immerse yourself in this madness," pleaded the warrior as Dar'raan moved past her, closing the alchemy lab door. "Isn't it enough for you to live in the city, when most of your kind have been kept out for years?"

Dar'raan ignored her. "I will be noticed too easily like this," said the Khajiit, unbuckling his armor and removing his helmet, storing his armor and weapons in the dresser's top drawer. Taking a set of robes from the second drawer, the Khajiit glanced back at the housecarl. "Will you turn me in?"

Lydia sighed. "No," said the housecarl reluctantly, sitting down in a chair by the fire pit as the Khajiit drew the robes around his body. "I promised my thane that I would show you the same courtesy that is due him."

She scowled and reached for a bottle of mead, looking Dar'raan in the eye. "But I will not keep secrets."

The Khajiit nodded slowly. "Then I ask that you tell no one else," said Dar'raan. He puilled his satchel over his shoulder, crossing over to the entrance. "No one can know what I intend to do... least of all, the true Dark Brotherhood."

He opened the front door, and strode outside.

_To be continued_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original vision for this story ends here. I don't know when the next chapter will be complete. I had a long, elaborate storyline planned, but after writing this chapter, my motivation plummeted. The part that originally inspired this story came from this scene. I may come back to this story someday, but if not, I feel that this is a good place to leave off.


End file.
